The Naked Truth
by Sabine Hawks
Summary: Rúmil, brother of Haldir, poses for a nude portrait and must deal with the consequences. Het romance Rúmil/OFC


#fast { LEFT: 0px; POSITION: relative; TOP: 0px } #google { LEFT: 0px; POSITION: relative; TOP: 0px } #inktomi { LEFT: 0px; POSITION: relative; TOP: 0px } #teoma { LEFT: 0px; POSITION: relative; TOP: 0px } .s { FONT-SIZE: xx-small; COLOR: #fff; FONT-FAMILY: verdana } .sBtn { BORDER-RIGHT: #900 3px solid; BORDER-TOP: #f00 3px solid; BACKGROUND: #9f3; FONT: bold xx-small verdana,sans; BORDER-LEFT: #f00 3px solid; COLOR: #000; MARGIN-RIGHT: 10px; BORDER-BOTTOM: #900 3px solid } #inktomi { BORDER-RIGHT: #99f 2px solid; PADDING-RIGHT: 8px; BORDER-TOP: #99f 2px solid; PADDING-LEFT: 8px; FONT-WEIGHT: bold; BACKGROUND: #f00; PADDING-BOTTOM: 2px; MARGIN-LEFT: 2px; BORDER-LEFT: #99f 2px solid; COLOR: #fff; PADDING-TOP: 2px; BORDER-BOTTOM: #99f 2px solid } -->"; document.write(lubid_string); //--> 

Title: The Naked Truth

Author: Madeleine Sabine

Pairings: Rumil/OFC

Rated: PG-13

Disclaimer: I do not own Rumil, Orophin, Haldir, Lórien, etc--but I do own Tara so please don't steal her. That would make me sad. I'm not making money, I'm not trying to piss anyone off! Really! I'm not!

The Naked Truth 

Quickly and with accuracy, Rúmil put an arrow into his target and drew another from his quiver.

"That's totally unnecessary," she lowered the roll of parchment, now pricked with an arrow, "and just the tiniest bit childish."

Rumil smirked, lowering his bow as he tossed his long hair over his shoulder elegantly. Ignoring the outdoor staircase, he jumped down onto the flet where she waited with a small wooden case and damaged parchments.

"A promise is a promise, Rúmil," she reminded him with a smirk, pushing past him and inside the house. Rúmil followed her with obvious reluctance, tossing his things into the antechamber as she swept about the house in an official manner.

"Remind me again why I am subjecting myself to this," Rúmil teased as he joined her in the main living area. His house was clean and airy with the scent of rose water and sandalwood permeating the curtains and cushions. Tára pulled a table over to the right side of the lounge and positioned a chair behind it. "Because I asked you to... and if you did not, you would spend your day off at the archery range doing essentially the same thing you do when you are on guard."

Rúmil shrugged, knowing there was a scrap of truth to that–-his free time was spent in much the same way his busy time was, but when Orophin suggested finding a hobby, this was not what he had in mind. Still, he had been cultivating feelings for Tára for months now and she was one of the loveliest and most talented Glirdain artists in Lórien; her request was too good to pass up. Tára pointed to the dressing screen in the corner of the room, "You know what to do."

Indeed he did, he glanced at her setting up her paints and inks and consoled himself in a private whisper, "All in the name of love, Rúmil, just remember that." He sighed, stepping behind the screen to look down at his plain jerkin. Clearing his throat, he called out in a small voice to her, "You know, I think the thread work on my vest would make a lovely study in textures..."

"Rúmil! You cannot let me down now, I promised my mentor I would have this nude study to him at the end of the week, there is no possible way I can find another suitable model before then," Tára retorted hotly and he flinched out of her view. His fingers felt slow and heavy as he unlaced his boots and tugged at his leggings-–this had all seemed to simple when she asked but now, when he really had to show up in front of her without a stitch of clothing, his self-confidence began to wane. He was in shape, Haldir made sure of that with his incessant drilling, so there was no reason to be embarrassed, right? Right? 

He closed his eyes and continued undressing, beseeching the Valar to make certain his brothers didn't find out about this–-he would never hear the end of it. A full-length mirror had been propped against the wall behind him and he turned to face it for one last check. Rúmil smiled with satisfaction at his reflection; he was tall and slender, with broad shoulders that tapered to a slim waist. His thighs were athletic, rounded with ribbons of hard, sculpted muscle--not only that, but the proportion of his calves and ankles gave his legs a shapely, pleasing appearance. Rúmil's proudest feature, however, was his chest. It was a valley of smooth planes only interrupted by his darker nipples and belly-button. His abdomen was muscular and gave him gorgeous lines were his pelvis met his legs. Just for a moment he studied his shoulders, and then his hips, and then his... What was an artistic word for that? His manhood? He was satisfied with that, and concluded that he had a perfectly shaped "manhood."

"Are you about ready? The light will only be good for so long..."

"Yes," Rúmil squawked, clutching at his throat. He heard Tára laugh softly from across the room and he inhaled deeply, steadying himself, preparing for his big moment. He had been naked with women plenty of times, he was no idiot in that department, but there was something very different about being nude in the bright light with another person, a woman, studying every inch of him. It was going to be very different...and, he realized, just the littlest bit erotic. He forced himself not to think like that, knowing full-well the consequences. Taking another deep, cleansing breath, Rúmil coached himself out from behind the screen, squaring his shoulders so that he wouldn't look sad and nervous.

"There's a couch there, if you could lie with your head closest to the south window that would be perfect," Tára instructed calmly, not looking up. Perhaps she knew it would make him nervous if she scrutinized him right off the block–-Rúmil did as she said, positioning himself in a relaxed position. He felt it was going well until she looked up, her sapphire eyes keen on his face and then slowly on the rest of him. Rúmil swallowed thickly.

Tára rose from her chair and stepped over to him with a gentle smile, moving his legs how she wanted them and tilting his head upward so that the sunshine fell across his angular features. "There," she said with a little sigh, "perfect."

Rúmil hoped she was also implying the subject, not just his pose.

When she was seated again, she began mixing colors, looking up every minute or so to check that she was in the right. Rúmil shifted his hips and arms, his insides squirming with anxiety–-why was she so quiet?

The silence reigned for several more minutes as she started the portrait, her eyes focused so deeply that Rúmil did not feel she was looking at him, rather through him. Slowly, as the minutes dragged and he watched her slender wrist swish back and forth across the parchment, he began to relax, to actually enjoy the feeling of being painted. It was liberating in a way, to know that his likeness was being transferred down with an expert hand, a hand he had bent to kiss many, many times.

"Are you comfortable? You aren't cramping?" Tára inquired, eyes flicking down to her work as she continued to paint. Rúmil grinned, "I'm fine. How does it look?"

She smirked, "You mean the painting or you?"

Rúmil had meant the painting and he felt his face fall a little in surprise, what was he supposed to say to that?

"It looks good," Tára answered without his clarification, "All of it looks lovely." Rúmil felt himself flush to the tips of his pointed ears, not simply because of her words but because of the telling look she directed at his eyes.

"I didn't know you could turn that color," Tára teased casually, picking up her brush again. Rúmil couldn't hide his smile and he realized he had forgotten all about being naked and was only focusing on staying perfectly still. It was an hour and a quarter before Tára thanked him for his help and invited him to dress; he did so reluctantly, having enjoyed their time together. He felt that a peaceful, silent knowledge had passed between them, that he was now connected to her in a private, intimate manner.

Tára was uncharacteristically quiet as she pulled a protective sheet over the painting and packed up her supplies. Rúmil emerged from the screen in a simple gray robe and leggings, braiding his hair over his shoulder, "Is that all you need then?"

"Yes, I should be able to finish the rest without you," Tára replied, fooling with a dark blonde curl that had fallen free of her intricate hairstyle. Rúmil nodded, sorry that she had said so. She offered him a slightly embarrassed smile before ducking out of the room to show herself out; Rúmil let his shoulders drop, watching her leave with a sinking, dismal ache forming in his gut. He should have done something, anything to let her know what he felt.

It was a week later, on his way to the Glirdain Talan to sneak a look at Tára's painting that Rúmil came across her and another artist walking along the path below. He stopped, hearing his name in their conversation, and hid himself behind a large tree. He felt guilty spying on her this way, but he could not resist the temptation to listen to what she had to say...

"Your submission to Master Gleril is most elegant, if I am not mistaken that is the March Warden's brother, Rúmil," the taller Elf was saying.

"Yes, he was a wonderful subject, the planes of his body are unbelievable, he has the most beautiful construction, but I was not able to capture his complexion to my satisfaction," Tára explained, Rúmil grinned at the dreamy cast in her voice. The other Elf indulged in a little laugh.

"If I did not know you to be a professional I would think you did more than paint him," the Elf baited.

"I did do more than paint him, I cemented him in my memory and it is an impossible vision to ignore," Tára confessed sadly, Rúmil's eyes widened as he slunk around the tree to get a look at her. The women were moving farther down the path but continued to converse; Rúmil followed. They had lowered their voices to a volume he could not interpret so he slid quietly along the bridge, when they paused, he stood and tried to crane his neck over the railing to hear their discussion. Stirred by yet another mention of his name, he leaned farther out and realized too late that he had gone too far. He made a last desperate clutch for the banister but it was in vain...

Tára let out a shriek as a loud thud echoed behind her and her companion. After the cloud of dust settled, the two women rushed to Rúmil's side, he rolled over onto his back, groaning and rubbing at his ribs. Tára's eyes traveled upward to the bridge swinging above them and she covered her mouth to suppress the giggles that were welling up inside of her, the other hand touched Rúmil's chest gently.

"Are you alright? Thank the Valar that bridge was not higher up!" she shook her head, knowing exactly what the Elf had been up to.

Rúmil sat up slowly, brushing off the bits of leaf and bark that dotted his jerkin. "I feel like such an idiot," he said, moaning as he collapsed back onto the ground. Tára raised an eyebrow, trying to coax him back up again, "Exactly what you deserve for spying."

"Most beautiful construction, eh?" Rúmil murmured, widening his eyes dramatically. Tára swatted him on the shoulder, standing to dust off her gown, "I should have painted an enormous ass on that canvas because that is exactly what you are, Rúmil." She turned away from him, crossing her arms over her chest in a huff...but she could not help the smile that was creeping across her face.

Rúmil rose to his feet gingerly, testing out his shoulders and arms, "Ha, you did not even SEE my ass!" He tossed his hair over his shoulder defiantly and grumbled at the twigs that had embedded in his braids. The other Elf that had been watching began to back away, sensing a fight she did not wish to be apart of. She was ignored as Tára whirled to face Rúmil.

"And for that I consider myself fortunate!"

"Liar!" Rúmil countered bitterly.

"Sneak!"

"...Liar!" he reprised in a shouted as she stormed away.

"Creative Rúmil, now I know why you're the painted and not the painter," Tára called over her shoulder, dark eyebrows narrowed in frustration. Rúmil opened his mouth to shoot back a comeback but realized he didn't have one...at least one that wasn't childish and embarrassing. He grunted, seeking out the nearest staircase.

The target at the far end of the archery range was beginning to look like an angry porcupine, Rúmil had fired at least two dozen arrows into it with vengeful fire. She put him in a fury, her pride, her arrogance, her insults against his posterior. He was boiling up–-no woman behaved like this to him, any other would have fawned over him for days after a fall like that. Granted, the comment about his beautiful construction might have been pushing it, but he was hurt! He wasn't liable for the remarks made during such periods of agony.

The high whistle that sounded alerted him to the fact that he as no longer alone. Turning his head only slightly he was met with the image of Orophin and his close friend Carand slinking towards him with knowing expressions. Rúmil was only curious for a moment before realization dawned–-they had seen the painting and now life as he had known it was over. He winced in anticipation of the forthcoming humiliation.

"Greetings soldier," Carand batted his dark eyelashes at him, running a slender hand up Rúmil's arm. He turned to his brother for help but Orophin was no better, he was hitching up his jerkin suggestively.

"The ladies are all a titter, little brother," Orophin oozed, combing Rúmil's hair with his fingers. Rúmil tried desperately to bat them off, trying a hurt look on them.

"Oh! Such an exceptional pout, stay just like that while I fetch my pencils!" Carand exclaimed wildly. Orophin sniggered. He draped a languid arm around his brother, "Don't worry, Rúmil, it's not me you need to worry about, but the March Warden on the other hand–-he may not be so forgiving."

Rúmil raised an eyebrow, "How do you mean?"

"Do you really think he wants his revered soldiers strutting about naked, posing like cats on couches? Perhaps if you had been holding a sword or defending a maiden he might not have been so upset–-but there you are, stark naked, flaunting the family goods for all of Lórien to see. Not only have you given him a complex but you have effectively decreased his mating pool by at least half–-apparently only sensitive, kind men pose nude for paintings."

Haldir's reaction had never entered into Rúmil's mind, he had anticipated some mild teasing from his brothers but he had not foreseen any other problems. The idea that Haldir had any less of a chance with the ladies of Lórien seemed unlikely–-he was the eldest and had the highest office, two facts he was never shy about flaunting.

"It will pass, brother, but I would suggest skirting his presence for the next week or so," Orophin added, winking at Rúmil as though he had just passed him very confidential information.

"Naturally," Rúmil replied, skeptical that Orophin and Carand had concluded their harassing.

"Well, as much as I would love spending the rest of my free day patting your hand, I think we'll be off," cooed Orophin, sliding away with Carand, who couldn't resist blowing Rúmil one last teasing kiss.

"Oh! We heard it was that Tára girl that did the painting, quite a talent, but I heard she wants to have the piece taken down...although that might be for the best," his brother called back to him. Rúmil ignored their chiding laughter as they left the range: Taken down? She had worked like hell on that painting, Rúmil had yet to see it but he could guess it was a masterpiece. He immediately began unstringing his bow and packing up his quiver; something had to be done.

Tára had spent the last two days arguing with Master Gleril about having her painting removed from the gallery of the Glirdain. She had insisted that it was more trouble for Rúmil than it was worth and that because of personal reasons she no longer wanted it to be hung for public viewing. Privately, she was raging at Rúmil for acting like such a selfish prat, spying on her and then trying to embarrass her in front of her friend. He deserved to be slandered in this way, to have his portrait taken down quickly and without explanation.

Now as she returned to her chambers to rest and nurse her biting headache, she felt the slightest twinge of regret. Rúmil was handsome, unbearably handsome, and his sense of humor and abounding energy was attractive-–he had been her first choice as a nude subject for more reasons than just one. Yes, he had a lovely body with graceful lines that artists coveted, but he also had a charisma that she wanted to capture and present; she felt she had done so, but at what cost to her heart? Tára was shocked at herself, her heart!? What did her heart have to do with it? Rúmil was acting like an idiot. No, he's acting like a man in love. 

"Where did that come from?" Tára asked herself aloud. The spying, his interest in what she had to say about him, the fact that he had fallen half a story while trying to listen to her talk about him–-of course those were signs, but he had also insulted her. It was too confusing and it only made the pain in her head increase tenfold. Her feet had carried her automatically to her front door and as she tossed it open she immediately knew something was different.

The first hint was the smell, the overwhelming scent of lilies as well as an unique floral smell she could not place. Her dark blue eyes traveled over the interior of her home, it had been smothered in flowers–-flowers in vases with their blooms open and smiling at her and flower petals scattered over the entrance, the floor of her living room, of her dining area. She dropped her canvas bag in the hall, mouth agape as she moved through the rooms of her home...who could have done this?

Her immediate thought was Rúmil, and she wasn't sure why she hoped it was him. As she entered her bedroom she let out a short squeal, her bed linens were hardly visible beneath the shower of pink and red petals that were giving off the most heavenly scent. Tara's keen eyes noticed a flash of white amongst the sea of red and pink, she reached over and extracted it from her pillow. Centered on the white card was flowing black script done in a neat hand, Nin laire lissuin, it read.

"For my sweet—"

"Summer flower," Rúmil finished, appearing in the doorway behind her garbed in an exquisite blue robe. Tara dropped the card on the bed, starting at his entrance. He smiled, his face brightening with a light she had not seen since the day she had painted him. Coming into the room, Rúmil reached tentatively for her hand but his resignations were unnecessary, Tára offered it to him freely, and as he bent to brush a kiss against her palm he felt energy surge through his body.

"Forgive me," Rúmil whispered, pulling her to him. Tára wrapped her arms about his slender waist and dug her nose into his chest, relaxing as he hugged her tightly.

"There is nothing to forgive, we are both at fault," she murmured, running her hand along the curve of his chest. Rúmil smiled, nudging her backward toward the bed, "I should have asked you this before you left that day, I was a coward but I shall not be again."

Tára lifted her face to look at him. Rúmil knew then that he was not in error; she was more beautiful to him than all the flowers of the world–-her bee-stung lips and round cheeks, her expressive brows and large eyes–-he wanted nothing more. There was a pause as he beheld her fully and Tára laughed a little.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What is it you were going to ask me?"

Rúmil lowered his lips to her ear and whispered his proposition, tightening his grip on her as he did. Tára smiled, shivering from the warmth of his breath on the sensitive coils of her ear. She stepped back and began to undo the intricate snaps and ties of her gown, Rúmil watching with rapt attention.

"It is my turn to be the painter," Rúmil told her in a low voice, touching the soft skin of her neck, "Your body will be the canvas and my lips the brushes." Tára grinned as he ran his forefinger along her lower lip. She continued disrobing as he turned away from her for a moment, slipping something from his robes onto the door before shutting it resolutely.

The little sign swung back and forth on the handle of the bedchamber door. It simply read: Áva nuhta sérenya.

Do not disturb.


End file.
